How can I help?
by LucyFrye
Summary: Alden (OC) is a young, novice assassin living in Manchester with his parents. Everything changes when he is inexplicably forced to stowaway on a train headed for London. His purpose? Locate the brotherhood working there and deliver a vital piece of information to the cause. What will happen as he gets swept into the fight against Starrick and the Templars?
1. Prologue

Prologue

September 18th

It has been a great deal of time since last I have written. The reason being, there simply has not been anything worth mentioning, until today. While on my way to join an old friend of mine in town this afternoon, I came upon two brothers of whom I had never met. They were talking in frantic whispers amongst themselves as they passed me, and when I greeted them with a simple nod it was as if I were invisible. I was not offended, but confused. Who were these stranger assassins and why were they so troubled? More importantly, what were they doing in dull ol' Manchester? When I returned home I spoke to my father about what I had seen. "Alden," he told me. "It's best not to worry about it. I'm sure they were just passing through." But something in his eyes seemed frightful. I am not sure what to think of it. Perhaps I am over speculating, but I cannot deny the unsettling feeling that has risen in me. I have been feeling restless and need answers. Tomorrow, fate willing, I will locate these assassins and find out for myself.

Faithfully, A. A. Stockham.

Alden gently closed his journal and drummed his wrestles fingers across its withered leather binding. He dimmed his gas lamp and stood, staring out his room window in the darkness. The grey light that seeped through the frosted glass was swallowed up by his coffee-black eyes. He stood there, imagining where those two mysterious strangers might be.

There was a sudden violent pounding at the door that made Alden flinch. His mother's startled yelp from the next room jolted him into a sprint down the hall. His father had reached the front door and stood extending his his arm in a halt. He wordlessly ordered Alden back into his room. He instead retreated into his parent's room.

"Mum—" Alden called, heart racing.

"Shh." She took her son's arm and they sat on the edge of her bed.

"What's happened?"

"Nothing, dear. Your father's been awaiting news of London. We just didn't know what time to expect it." She whispered reassuringly.

"What news?"

There was low murmuring coming from down the hall. They sat motionless and listened. Alden could just barely make out his father's voice, but the others were muffled.

Were you followed…what of London...damn those fools…I can't possibly make the trip tonight…George I've done all I can…Even if I was ready to leave, which I am not, I have serious problems here of my own... You are the one responsible for this…Leave someone else to watch over Crawley and go yourself...no…no…he will not go he isn't ready…alone in bloody London...no…

There was a deathly silence that lasted too long. Despite his mother's silent protest, Alden stood to press his ear to the bedroom door when it was suddenly thrusted open. Startled, he tripped falling onto his back with a clumsy thump. His father stood above him rage and fear in his gaze.

"Alden…" He exhaled helping his son to his feet. "Go to your room and pack whatever you think you may need. Then come talk to me. Quickly now, and look sharp."

Without a second in between, Alden was in his room filling a small pack with spare clothing and various tactical tools. After dressing, he paused. He looked at his journal laying neatly on his desk. Did he need it? Probably not. Was this something worth mentioning? Definitely. The hesitation was forgotten at the sound of his father's voice hurrying him. Alden grabbed the journal and delicately slid it to the bottom of the pack.

"I meant to give this to you after you had passed your final tests, however, you will be needing it now." His father said regretfully.

In his arms he cradled a black trunk with scuffed golden clasps. He set it down softly on Alden's bed then opened it hastily. He pulled out a black woolen cloak and slipped it onto his son's shoulders, pulling the pointed hood over his worried eyes. He then retrieved a deep brown leather coat which he layered on top. Finally, he pulled from the trunk a black bracer. Alden smiled, overcome with excitement- his own hidden blade. Realizing his father's worry, he fought to conceal his enthusiasm. He swiftly and expertly laced it onto his arm. His father smiled tiredly.

"I apologize for all of this."

"Father—"

"I am sorry, I don't have much time to explain. Please remember all your mother and I have taught you. Be cautious, be courteous, be clever. Go now," he instructed as he handed his son a small pouch of coins. "Run to the tracks at the foot of the village, a brother will be waiting for you. Make sure you are not followed."

"Yes, father."

"Alden." His mother rushed in taking her son into her arms. She held him tightly resting her head on his shoulder.

"May the creed guide you, my son." She breathed, stifling a sob.

With that, Alden said his farewells and dashed for the train tracks on the edge of town.

September 18th –continued

Something incredibly strange has just happened to me. At this present moment I find myself a stowaway on a cargo train headed for London. I am more than confused. I have no idea of the purpose for my trip nor do I know where I shall go once I arrive. Oddly, I am not afraid. Father just gave to me my very first custom assassin's garb, including a hidden blade! I feel invincible. What I know thus far is that I am an important messenger to the brotherhood working in London. I almost did not make it. When I reached the tracks, the train was almost past. One of father's associates, whom I believe to be one of the mystery men mentioned in my last entry, gave me a strange book that I can only guess is an atlas of some nature. I am to deliver it directly to the hands of a Mister Henry Green, and then am allowed to return home. However, I plan on exploring what London has to offer before running back home to mum and dad. This is going to be a bloody marvelous adventure.

Faithfully, A. A. Stockham


	2. Young Stockham

Chapter 1

Alden closed his journal with a thud and placed it back into his pack. He rubbed his sore eyes. The faded light of the approaching city gave him just enough to scribble but no more than that. He patted his coat pocket where he placed the small book that the assassin at the tracks had given him. He was immensely curious as to what dire information it might hold.

The frigid air was whipping all around him as the train pressed on in the darkness. His excitement was enough to keep him warm. Alden laughed out loudly in disbelief. What the hell had just happened? It was as if he had been swept up in a dream and carried into another life. How much time had passed since his departure? An hour, maybe two. As the city, though still distant, slowly became visible, Alden gazed through the fog.

He sat, leaning on a heavy wooden crate, his knees tucked up to his chest. He rested his eyes for just a moment, attempting to calm his nerves. The screeching thud of the boxcar door opening alarmed him and prompted him to retreat into a corner cloaked entirely in shadow.

A stocky man in a blood red coat climbed through, swinging a lantern in front of him. His eyes narrowed as he scanned the car. Alden held his breath and watched as the man stepped further in. A gruff voice echoed from the cart ahead of them.

"Just go and make sure you counted right the first time. If it's not all 'ere, I'll av 'alf the mind to take you 'ome and feed you to me dogs!"

The man snorted in reply. "Oh, Bugger off." He said under his breath.

Alden breathed a silent laugh as the man crossed through the car onto the next. The train was beginning to slow, it's fast grinding turned to labored screeches. They were approaching the station, it's dim glow both inviting and ominous.

Being able to see would be a relief. It would mean, however, that he would have to try harder not to be seen.

The train finally halted after a lengthy heave from the engines. Alden was on his feet in a blink. He hopped onto the landing of the station and surveyed the area. Luckily, it seemed there were no guards, thugs, or any other immediate danger near by. Alden had a feeling this safe and uneventful arrival was a fortune not intent on repeating itself. He relaxed, threw his hood back, and walked out onto the sludge-covered London streets.

Unlike the quiet serenity of the train station, the city was bubbling with life. Eager shouts and arguments flared in his ears from all directions. Women nagged their drunken husbands who sang loudly in unintelligible slurs. Children, barefoot and blackened by soot, ran down the sidewalks chasing each other and kicking cans. Horses trotted gingerly along the cobblestones, snorting and huffing as they dragged along their carriages. At this time of night, Alden's home town was all but dead. The silence was something he thought accompanied the night. It seemed as though London hadn't noticed night had fallen.

Alden strolled at a slow pace, allowing himself to take in the madness. He took his time in the marvel of each sight and each sound, but he dare not inhale too deeply. The stench was unidentifiable but hung in the air like thick fog. It nearly choked him as he yawned in exhaustion. He gagged. Scrunching his nose, he steadied himself and carried onward, quickening his pace. A young woman's voice stopped him suddenly. Standing in front of him she held out a filthy, boney, hand.

"Please kind sir, if you could spare anything, anything at all. My boy and I are starving." She pleaded weakly.

Alden stood in astonishment at her pitiful appearance. This small woman could not have been over twenty, yet her hair was brittle and matted. Her cheeks so grey and hollow, her eyes glossy and desperate… She looked as if death was within her. She shook in fear at Alden's gaze, and his heart ached for the woman.

"Please, don't be afraid." He apologized reaching for the pouch of coins his father had supplied him with. "Here's ten pence for you, and ten for your boy." He placed the money into the woman's shivering hand. She looked as though she might cry.

"Oh! Thank you, young gentleman. God bless you!" She bowed her head and gripped the coins tightly, then ran down the dark street disappearing into a fog.

Alden watched her fade and blinked back the mist in his eyes. He had never seen such agony in a face. The beggar woman would linger in his mind for years.

Just as Alden had regained his composure, a slurred threat rang from behind him.

"Hey you! Fancy yourself a Good Samaritan? Hand over that jingling bag of yours or I'll pluck it from your bloody corpse!"

Alden turned to face a man glaring at him with wild eyes. He bit down on a cigar butt, no doubt picked of the streets, and flashed a yellow grin. The man stepped closer, tipping his ragged boulder hat. He pulled from his faded crimson waistcoat, a small knife littered with rust. Alden laughed at he sight of the man. He seemed somehow endearing despite his derelict state. The threat was very well delivered but the man, bless his heart, was clueless. Alden shook his head, concealed it beneath his hood, turned, and continued down the street away from his aggressor.

"Oi! Where d'ya think you're going, lad?" The man growled after him, following closely behind.

"Away from the likes you, you loony bastard." Alden spat over his shoulder. He shouldn't have provoked him, but he couldn't be helped.

"Why…you smug little shit." The man huffed, slamming a heavy hand on Alden's shoulder.

Immediately, he grasped the man's rough hand and spun around, twisting his arm just before breaking point. The man let out a howl and fell to his knees.

"Do not touch me. I don't _have_ to kill you." Alden commanded through gritted teeth. The man whimpered.

"Alright! God sakes, mate! Let go of me bloody arm!"

Alden dropped the man's hand and he quickly shuffled back. Cradling his sore arm he spat at Alden's feet.

"You won't be so smug when my boys come for you."

"Your boys?"

"That's right, lad. You'll be sorry you ever crossed me. We Blighters own London. They'll be looking for you by morning."

"Blighters? What, a handful of sorry sods like you? You should think next time you go flicking your knife at people, it's not polite."

"You bloody fool, you 'ave no idea—"

"Oh, shut it." Alden snapped, jerking forward, causing the man to flinch and shield himself.

"Who the 'ell do you think you are?" He shouted as Alden turned his back once more. He rounded a corner and kept on, leaving the brute to shout his insults to the wind.

September 20th

This is not at all what I was expecting. I have been here only two nights and one day and I want to go home. The city is a festering pit of vile people. It's smell is unmentionable, there are thugs on every street corner, I've got nowhere but the cold mud to lay my head, and what's worse—I haven't the faintest idea how to get this damned book to this supposed Mr. Green. I will not loose heart, mind you, but a place like this—why not let the Templars keep it? I'm only joking, of course. Fortunately, I managed to hustle some information out of a particularly cheeky "Blighter". He told me that I should be "asking the bloody Rooks". Apparently the Rooks are a recent and growing gang, sprung up in the Southwark district. Their leader is a mysterious man with a sharp wit and talent for killing. I am more than confident he is the man I seek. How to find him? We shall see.

Faithfully, A. A. Stockham


	3. Meet the Rooks

Chapter 2

It was midday. The rain had cleared for the first time since he'd arrived and the sunlight painted the city of London a bright new variety of colors. People seemed to walk straighter and smile broader. There was laughing and singing in the streets, and suddenly—it was how Alden had first imagined it. Finding a snug pub in supposed Rook territory, he sat on a bar stool at he end of the counter, sketching in his journal. He was so focused that he did not notice someone had taken a seat beside him.

"A round of bitter for my friends, please!" a jovial voice sang, consuming the silence of the pub and making Alden flinch.

There was cheering all around as drinks were pored for everyone, including Alden.

He took it gracefully, sipping very little and setting it aside. In the seats to his left, five men sat boasting loudly—all garbed in gross shades of green. On the far end of the counter, opposite to himself, sat the man who had broken Alden's focus with his good natured (but obnoxious) celebratory round. Alden was already irritable on account he had not been able to get much rest since the night before his departure, and it was beginning to take its toll. He took one quick look at the man and scoffed. Arrogance radiated from him.

He was not as tall as Alden, but he was broad like a bear. He wore a proud grin on his face that seemed to have a hidden slyness. His eyes were fixated on his hand, which was adorned with menacing brass knuckles. The man breathed on his tightened fist and polished away at the weapon with a gloved thumb.

"Well rooks, I'd say over all, a job well done."

The men cheered again. So these were rooks, then? Alden didn't see much a difference from the blighters, except the color of choice for the uniforms. His attention returned to the man on the end. He removed a luxurious black top hat from his head, revealing a greasy brown mass of hair that he ran his hand over, pressing it away from his face. He realized that this man was not as old as he'd first appeared to be. His face was young, although aged with jagged scars to the left brow and right cheek, and a scruff that framed his jaw. The man met Alden's intrusive stare with reserve, his eyes merely looking back, and not saying anything. He spoke without breaking his focus.

"Something the matter, old boy? Do you prefer something else to bitter? Maybe something French would be more your taste? Champagne, Monsieur?" He mocked, his rooks roaring with laughter. He merely continued to look at Alden blankly.

"I'd prefer it to be silent." Alden said under his breath.

The man, too elated to be effected by his haughty tone, gave a wicked smile.

"I'm sorry. Are we disturbing your studying?" He teased. "You think we should go grab a pint at the library instead, lads?"

The rooks pounded there hands on the counter, throwing their heads back in wild cackles. Alden closed his journal gently but deliberately, then promptly guzzled his drink down. The men silenced for an awkward moment before snickering amongst themselves. The man did not once break his gaze… Was he even blinking?

Alden spoke up despite his annoyance.

"So you're rooks, are you? Can't say I'm very impressed."

The pub fell silent and the gang glared holes in him. The man arched his scarred eyebrow playfully.

"However, I am glad you're here." Alden continued. "I'm looking to speak to your leader. Do any of you gentlemen know how I might find him?"

The rooks glanced back at the man waiting for him to speak, an odd blend of curiosity and excitement danced across his face.

"What makes you think our leader wants to talk to you?" The man inquired, sipping his own drink.

Alden hesitated, "I have important information to deliver."

"What kind of information?"

"The kind meant for him, only."

There was a long, uncomfortable pause.

"Alright," the man stood from his stool. "I may be able to arrange a meeting with him for you. Of course, you'll have to do something for me."

Alden didn't like where this was going. The man's tone was unreadable, and as he approached, Alden realized something was odd about him. He was cloaked fantastically in black leather and glistening buckles- the only green on him, a jade colored waistcoat. A shilling dangled from his neck.

"And what might that be?" Alden frowned.

The man stood before him, leaning back on the counter, elbows resting on the surface. His gaze finally shifted away from Alden's and down to his feet. For a brief moment he appeared to be thinking. His head rose. It appeared he had thought of something positively dastardly.

"How about a little brawl?" He challenged, a devilish glint in his eyes.

"You want to fight me?"

"No, no. That wouldn't be fair to you now, would it? Tell you what. You best Bruce here," he tapped the rook behind him on the shoulder, "and I'll take you right to the big man himself. How's that sound?"

"To good to be true."Alden scoffed.

"My, we are confident." He condescended. "What's your name, if I may?"

"Ajax." He had used his middle name instead. Why had he done that?

"Well Ajax, I can tell you're not from London, so I'll tell Bruce to go easy on you. But here, the Rooks are feared and respected, and you will behave appropriately." The man held a cold stare.

Alden returned the stare until he was surprised to see the man burst into hysterical laughter, the corners of his eyes shone.

"I'm just having a bit of fun!" He laughed dabbing his eyes. "You should have seen the look on your face. Lighten up won't you, lad?" The man pouted.

Alden smiled grimly. What an arse this man was.

"Even as I try to escape Evie, it's like she's everywhere, shapeshifting into blokes like this just to annoy me." He said turning to face his men as they laughed thunderously yet again.

They filed out of the pub in a mess of green, Alden following closely but cautiously. All gathered round in a narrow ally, they formed a small ring. Bruce, in all his husky, sweaty glory, stood center. Alden limbered up his arms before stepping in to face him. The man stood amongst his men, observant.

"Right lads," he called, "do play nice. Bruce, show Ajax here how the Rooks operate."

Bruce hoisted his fists to his ducked head and planted his feet firmly. Alden simply stood relaxed, arms at his side, focusing on Bruce's eyes. He would jab with his right hand first, that much was certain—how predictable—Alden swiftly dodged Bruce's flying fist and countered by grasping his opponents wrist. Bruce, shocked by the Alden's speed, hesitated for too long. Alden launched his bent knee into his opponents stomach and released him so that he might take back in the wind that had been knocked from his lungs.

Bruce charged towards him roaring and Alden swept his body out of the way just before sticking his leg out. Bruce's feet made contact with Alden's seemingly thin ankle, and he stumbled to the ground.

"Toro!" Alden shouted, causing snide bouts of laughter from the rooks.

As Bruce regained his footing, his right cheek was met with Alden's slim but hard fist—knocking him into the arms of the gathered men. A proud laugh escaped from Alden's chest, as the men threw Bruce back into the fight.

Alden circled around looking to gage the reaction of the man from the pub, who had instigated the fight. He had vanished from the circle. Alden glanced around, worriedly.

"Wait, where—?" He managed to mutter before getting tackled to the ground and pinned by the enormously dense Bruce, now thoroughly agitated.

"Hah! Gotcha, ya little piss pot." He spat, proceeding to pummel his fists across Alden's sharp cheeks.

He couldn't breath, the man was so heavy. He struggled to push him off, legs flailing, all the while loosing vision and feeling in his face. The punches didn't let up. Four, five, six. He was going to black out, he could feel it. His muscles weakened and his eyes closed.

"BRUCE!" He faintly heard over the gruff laughter of the crowded men.

Boots dropped from the sky beside his head, and Bruce finally stood. Ah, this man was more than just a rook. He had to be the man he was looking for.

Alden inhaled hoarsely and turned onto his side. He spat blood and breathed heavily.

"I told you to play nice, didn't I?" The voice scolded.

"Sorry boss."

Alden was rolled onto his back by his shoulder to see the man from the pub looking down in mock pity.

"Poor lad. And you were doing so well."

"You," Alden rasped. "You're the leader of The Rooks."

A prideful grin spread to both ends of the man's face, turning him strikingly boyish. He placed his ridiculous top hat snuggly over his greasy hair.

"I believe you have some information for me?"

Alden weakly reached for his breast pocket, but the man quickly gripped his forearm, twisting it over with ease. He squinted at his hidden blade bracer and frowned.

"Bloody hell, mate, why didn't you say you were looking for me on official business?" The man leaned down to whisper.

"Why didn't you say you were the leader?" He coughed in response.

The man shook his head and laughed quietly. His manner changed instantly as he spoke in a hushed, casual tone.

"How the hell did you manage to let Bruce get the best of you? The man is a clumsy oaf." He rambled as he pulled Alden to his feet.

"Alright boys!" He called to the men still circled up and staring. "Go have another round on me, except you Bruce. Next time I say play nice, play bloody nice."

The men all cheered and laughed, filing back into the pub, giving Bruce celebratory claps on the back.

"Now, let's see it then." He urged, holding out his hand.

Alden pulled the small book from his pocket and handed it over. A gloved thumb fanned the pages quickly.

"I don't know what's in it, Mr. Green, sir. I was only told that I should deliver it directly to you." Alden supplied when the man only seemed confused at the contents of the pages.

"Green?" He said after a thoughtful pause.

"You are Henry Green? Leader of the Rooks, head of The Brotherhood in London?"

"Aye, the leader of the Rooks lad, but the name is Jacob Frye." He said with a tilt of his hat.

"Oh." Alden breathed, awkwardly.

"Haven't heard of me, eh?" He said with disappointed sigh, looking childishly forlorn. "C'mon then. I'll take you to Greenie."


End file.
